The Unsolvable Riddle
by StarInk10
Summary: Bane has broken the Bat physically. Joker has broken the Bat emotionally. Riddler aims to break him spiritually,& what better way then to take away the source of his purpose? In time, Riddler reflects on his turbulent past and ultimately, his own purpose
1. Prologue

**The Unsolvable Riddle**

He stood at the very edge of the clock tower's balcony, the tip of his shoes standing on air as they peeked over the ledge to face the busy streets below….No. Perhaps balcony wasn't the right word to describe where he was. There was no balustrade to prevent him from falling (_jumping_) off the tower and landing (_crashing_) onto some poor schmuck's car; just a small wall that surrounded the perimeter, its stature just barely tall enough to prevent a five-month old kitten from leaping over. No; a more appropriate description for this extension of concrete floor would be _invitation._ If anything, the barrier was more like a threshold to an invisible door; ignore it if you want to stay, cross it if you want to leave.

The man decided to stay for the time being.

The wind that flicked his green jacket and massaged his face was exceptionally gentle, so much so that he regarded the unbiased force of nature as a gesture of affection, the most he had experienced in many a year. He absently took off his green bowler hat so that the hand of the wind could tease his bangs and brush its fingers through his hair. He would have liked to close his eyes to fully embrace these sensations, to close his eyes and pretend that the pressure that soothed his face belonged to the hand of someone who cared, but his gaze remained focused on the skyscrapers and speckles of light ahead and below him.

In a few minutes, they would be gone forever, consumed in fire by his hand (or rather, by another's if things went according to plan), so he figured he might as well enjoy the view and relish the obliviousness of the city; indulging in the latter had always cheered him up in the past.

Yet, his face remained passive, denied of confidence or excitement, uncertainty or fear. The look in his eyes was contemplative but distant, the green of the irises glazed with exhaustion.

There was no happiness. Just the crushing ache of emptiness and the sharp pangs of his racing thoughts…

_The average human being is capable of producing approximately 60,000 thoughts on an average day. That's 14,400 thoughts generated on a regular hour, 240 by each common minute, and about 4 to 18 thoughts every hackneyed, un-extraordinary second. _

_For the average human being. _

His gaze drifted downward as he raised his hand to the middle of his chest, looking at the open palm that was masked by a purple leather glove.

_All things considered, the matter is a moot point; it would be impossible to garner precise statistics since the mind is incapable of not thinking, despite the stupidity of the individual in question, or the idiocy of mankind in general. What it really comes down to is how a thought is defined: whether it's coherent or clarifying, complete or controlled. Whether it is triggered or accumulated, whether it occurs with our consent…or goes beyond all awareness. _

His open hand quickly hardened into a fist before releasing a silent sigh, shutting his eyes and gently shaking his head. After a moment, his eyelids and eyebrows slightly creased as he turned his head to look at the door behind him, a good fifty feet away from where he was standing.

It was 11:55 p.m. _He_ should have been here by now.

_What of those images and words that stir deep within the subconscious, or the ones that stay there…forever? Are they to be taken into account? _

Dropping his fist to his side, the man stepped down from the "wall". He took a few steps in the direction of the door, camouflaged within the giant timepiece engrained into the tower. The circle of roman numerals was a concrete black (_like the Knight_) that stood out boldly against the clock's white body. As he stepped closer, he noticed how his body became thinly outlined with a soft illumination, a result of the light emitted from the giant dial. He observed this with faint fascination, turning his hand and bowler hat a few times to see if this phenomenon remained consistent.

It was typical for a clock to illuminate figures, so why had he assumed he would be any different?

(_Because this has not been an average day, and I am by no means the average human being.) _

"I am not a number," the man mumbled to himself in whispered defiance. "I am not a statistic."

_**Boom!**_

The man jumped in surprise as the door shook with an ominous sound, one that resonated in his ears and echoed to his core. It was the sound of something on the other side, trying to break down the door… something _big. _

With a fleeting facial gesture that would be regarded as a twitch more than a smile, the man hastened toward the mini wall to stand on it once against, his back deliberately turned to the door as if the growing

**BOOM! **

was as average as the air he breathed.

For a moment, as the sound of the door became more angry and determined, he found himself wishing that he was still illuminated in the light of time. He found himself wishing he could turn back the clock, even though the hands were out of his reach. He found himself wishing that insomnia hadn't been kept him awake for the past six days, that he could have gotten some damn sleep and taken refuge in a pleasant dream.

_I'm not sure if a dream can be considered a thought, or if a memory can be classified as such. Regardless of the subject, a thought is very real, whereas a memory… if it feels like a dream…_

He wished he could argue with Joker that riddles were better than jokes, to play chess with Jonathan and smile at Harley's laughter. He wished that he had had the courage to introduce himself to Zatanna, to tell her that he believed in magic because she made him love her. He wished he could erase the grave that bore his mother's name. He wished his father had suffered a crueler death.

_I've often found that…one can be easily confused for the other. _

The Riddler placed the bowler hat on his head a second before the door burst off its hinges (leaving a dark hole in the clock from which a monstrous shadow emerged), but only a nanosecond after he wished for the end of Gotham City.

Such was the nature of thoughts.

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**A/N: ** As Riddler himself noted, it would be near impossible to ascertain the average number of thoughts within the human population. I had done some research on the subject but I wouldn't take those numbers seriously lol.

I'm not sure when I'll be able to update again, though I would much rather be writing for fun than writing for college homework. I have been dying for ages to post something on Fanfiction, and have taken longer with plucking up the courage to do so. I promise though that this won't be consumed by Unfinished Oblivion…he's eaten up way too many stories already.

Reviews and helpful criticism is welcome; flames are not.


	2. A Matter of Time

Chapter 1: A Matter of Time

The generic office clock looked out of place in the cafeteria, clinging to the upper wall as it looked down upon a sea of wrinkled orange uniforms. It's extraneous position wasn't so much that it belonged in a cramped room with a desk and mass of paperwork, but because when the receiving ends of slushy oatmeal and jiggling rice were psychopaths and madmen, any form of normalcy in Arkham Asylum immediately became unique and drew pairs of craving eyes.

To the staff of Arkham Asylum, the clock was both a comfort and an offender.

It reminded them that there was something called life outside these grimy walls, where conceptions of reality were steadier, and where things such as love and hope weren't so hideously warped that their titles advertised something sinister and despairing. It reminded them that there was a household that had good food, a great family, or a big screen television, and that they had the pleasure of calling this home. It reminded them that they weren't the ones trapped behind those cold cell room doors, where inmates could only regard their minute universe of shabby cots and peeling white walls as a privilege.

The clock offended them because they didn't believe in the latter.

The paranoia of running into an escaped patient made the entire staff tense and silent, knowing that eventually, _inevitably_, it would happen. It wasn't even a question on _how _the inmates would get out of their cells (the staff resigned themselves to accepting they would never discover all the escape routes); the true concern was _who_ and _when_.

All they could do was pray that it didn't happen on their shift.

In the meantime, the staff picked up habits that became second nature. There wasn't one psychiatrist in the place who didn't walk the halls in a hurried pace, giving an occasional glance over their shoulder and wiping their foreheads with sweaty palms. The guards fingers would randomly twitch in the direction of their holstered guns, the nurses took to biting their lips to the extent that no amount of chap –stick could salvage the torn flaky skin, and the doctors' would unconsciously grind their teeth in tense anticipation of what the day would bring, their hair turned grey or lost altogether.

They all blamed time for these daily discomforts because it was so damn _slow_, keeping them rooted in a dead end maze of crazies until the end of the day. It was easy for them to believe the roles were reversed, that they in fact were the prisoners of Arkham Asylum.

As for the patients, time made no difference to them.

They had learned long ago that time was a useless thing in a place like Arkham Asylum. For all they knew or cared, it was being kept in solitary confinement, too distracted by its own reality to give the others any notice.

In a sense, time was lost to time.

This was the scenario as the clock's subtle _tick-tick _was lost among the loud banter of the inmates, all ignoring the jest of its normalcy.

All but one.

The Riddler sat alone at a table near the back wall, staring so sternly at the clock that it seemed he wanted it to melt and wither beneath his gaze. At random points during the day, he had asked a few of the guards to confirm whether the time of the cafeteria clock was correct. The condescending idiots decided to play along, not even questioning why he was asking about a particular clock. After all, he reflected while rolling his eyes, he was _crazy._ At any rate, the guards had responded to the positive, but Riddler still turned his attention to the clock the moment he entered the cafeteria, just to make sure. He knew that in order to accomplish tonight's plan, accuracy was essential, right down to the nanosecond, and he would never trust those buffoons with anything.

After a few more minutes of studious concentration, Riddler was satisfied and turned his attention to his food, resuming fiddling his fork through the unidentifiable clots of mush.

He had heard that a variety of colored food on a plate was healthy, but really, this was ridiculous. Since when was apple sauce hunter green and had ever contained squishy red pellets? There was a small pile of purple diskette-shaped morsels that he couldn't identify, and unless it was an emerging trend, he didn't think normal mashed potatoes should be laced with sky blue. There were other piles and lumps of food whose identity was a riddle, but he paid them no mind. He had no intention of eating this junk anyway, and was instead using his fork to manipulate and move them in a certain pattern.

It gave him peace of mind when he had a visual for a plan, and thanks to the masses of muck he was working with, the outline made sense to him alone.

This is how The Joker found him, mumbling and adjusting his food into lines. After a moment of consideration, Joker smiled mischievously and raised his own food tray above his head, as high as he could. Looking at Riddler so as not to miss his reaction, Joker grinned and dropped the food tray. It hit the table's surface with a resounding _Bam!_, causing flecks of food to go flying everywhere. Riddler had jumped at least a foot in the air from his seat, landing back with an audible _thud!_ and a weak sounding yelp. His surprise immediately turned into disgust and embarrassment when he heard the familiar laughter ringing in his ears.

He didn't even have to look to know who it was. Riddler was among the thousands who heard this laugh before seeing who it belonged to.

Still chuckling to himself, Joker sat down next to Riddler, smiling like an innocent child instead of a mass-murdering psychopath. Riddler wanted to tell him off, or at the very least _shove_ him off, but he caught himself before any damage was done. All things considered, Riddler and Joker were on relatively good terms…if it could be considered as such where the clown was involved. From the very moment he met Joker, Riddler was sure to tread carefully, not knowing what to make of him at the time. He had later congratulated himself on his own insight, as he and the citizens of Gotham quickly learned they did _not_ want to be on Joker's enemy list.

Of course, they were far from being friends; other then the Joker being a cruel son of a bitch, friendship was somewhat disapproved by costumed villains; they were all mistrustful loners to some extent. Instead, their interaction with each other was fueled by interest, both wanting to know the others thoughts on any given subject. Their conversations were engaging and thought-provoking, which worked in Riddler's favor, and for the Joker it was entertaining and a deceptively subtle form of gratitude. Riddler knew that Joker could tell he really listened and didn't dismiss his ideas immediately like the other inmates did, and that Riddler made an effort to preserve that trust and consistency. Riddler would consider Joker's words, making the effort to understand, and whenever he didn't agree with Joker he always gave a reason why. They traded more thoughts than insults, which was quite a rarity where The Joker was involved. Even though this was probably a result of fear more than anything, it was all just peachy to the clown, which in turn made Riddler a bit more at ease when talking with him.

Ultimately, if Riddler had to pick a word to describe his relationship with Joker, the first to come to mind would be _neutrals_, a notion that was silently confirmed and approved between the two.

Other then knowing it was best not to piss Joker off, Riddler held his tongue mostly because of curiosity. Earlier today, when he asked the guards about the time, he overheard a pair of them talking excitedly, saying that they saw the Dark Knight walking down the dimly lit hallways with purpose, that he had come to speak to the Clown Prince of Crime in private. The purpose of the visit was as unknown as Joker's real name.

So Riddler remained silent, letting the Joker's laugh fade into soft giggles before he dared to ask. When the clown finally settled down and smiled expectedly at Riddler, the latter put on a face of calm detachment and unconcern.

"So…what did he want?"

Joker grinned at him, exposing a single square hole in the upper left side of his off-white teeth.

" …You'll have to be more specific," Riddler frowned.

His tongue playfully flicking at the void in his teeth, Joker extended his arm. A bloody tooth rolled down his sleeve and into his hand.

"Oh, Bats and I were just talking about our favorite characters from _A Midsummer's Night Dream_," he said happily, flipping the tooth with his thumb as Two-Face did with his coin.

"After we finished discussing the moral ambiguity of Puck and Oberon, Batman wondered whether those wimpy fairies really existed. He seems to be under the delusion that the Tooth Fairy is part of their cult, so naturally he thought the only way to draw her from her hideout was to place a tooth under a pillow…"

" An interrogation didn't go his way, did it?"

"And Batman volunteered me to use my tooth," Joker continued.

"Or maybe he just really hates you," Riddler offered.

It was hard not to underestimate the Joker's strength, considering that his underweight frame looked like a twig compared to the Olympian build of The Batman. Riddler was immediately reminded how much of a threat Joker truly was as, in the middle of a blink, he felt something painfully grip the back of his hair before his face was slammed into the disgusting food before him.

Riddler remained face down in the food, unable to rise as Joker's hand continued to press down on his head. He didn't bother to struggle, knowing he did not have the physical prowess to do so. He did, however, keep a quiet mind despite the slop that inched into his nostrils. He decided that if he gave Joker a sense of dominance, there was a chance the clown would let go. He couldn't really choose between preserving his dignity or his life, as both seemed rather important, but if Joker found humor in his drowning in the worst food imaginable, then it was out of his hands.

All of this occurred in a matter of ten seconds. At the end of it, the pressure behind Riddler's head suddenly disappeared. He still didn't rise, afraid that Joker would push him down again if he did. There was only silence however (though that could be credited to the green applesauce in his ears), so he decided it was safe. Clumps of food fell off Riddler's face as he rose, but his vision was still marred by blue and white mashed potatoes, and he felt slightly nauseated.

"That was my plan…" he finally managed, wiping the goop off his face with his sleeve.

"Yeah well, now it's your face," Joker replied evenly.

Riddler sighed as he whipped his hand back and forth to shake off the sticky…whatever the hell this stuff was, but it stubbornly remained clamped to his skin. He grimaced as he ripped the food off his wrist, the green substance claiming some arm hair in the process.

"Are you saying this is what's going to happen if I go through with the plan?" Riddler asked distractedly, massaging his slightly reddened hand.

"No; that's my way of saying 'shut-up- and- keep- your- nose- out- of- my- business- or- I'll- stuff- your –nose- with- peas,' " Joker said pleasantly. "And for the psychiatrist's record, I didn't even _look _at your food tray Riddles.If you thought I was implying your…_plan_ will fail," he smirked mockingly as he looked over the Riddler's food-coated face, "means that you don't have much confidence in it to begin with."

Riddler wanted to tell Joker that a good punch to the jaw would _imply_ he hated the madman's guts, but resigned himself to cleaning himself off as best he could. He wondered why he had even asked the Joker such a question in the first place. As much as he hated thinking about it (never, _never_ admit it) Joker was exceptionally intelligent, perhaps even a genius (albeit an idiotic one), and as a master manipulator, his words and actions often held more substance beneath the surface.

For reasons beyond him, Riddler had somehow believed that having food resembling rodent feces shoved into his face had a double meaning.

Riddler scowled.

God, he was a moron.

A moron who had gone three days without sleep, but with such an ingenious and brilliant mind as his, that was hardly an excuse.

But then… maybe he was having doubts after all?

As Riddler decided he would take Joker's food and dump it down the psycho's shirt, he suddenly realized how quiet the jester had been in the past minute. Wiping the remnants of food gunk out of his eyes, he saw that Joker was staring straight ahead, his chin and lips covered by two white fists joined together to hold up his head. Riddler had enough experience in this posture to recognize that some deep contemplation was at work.

Apparently it wasn't too deep, because quite suddenly the Joker began chuckling to himself with barely restrained glee. Before Riddler could question the cause of his amusement, Joker's face fell just as quickly as his happiness appeared, his vivid green eyes almost appearing sad.

Bewildered, Riddler watched as Joker began to laugh harder until it was instantly quelled with a deep frown, then a smile would slowly grow and the pattern repeated itself. This cycle continued for another minute or two, disturbing Riddler to the point where he put a fair amount of distance between himself and the clown, sliding to the very end of the table's bench.

When it seemed the mood swings had finally stopped, the Joker smiling now with a rather subtle sincerity, Riddler cautiously slid himself closer to the villain, wanting an explanation.

After all, he couldn't stand knowing there was a riddle whose answer eluded him.

When he noticed that Joker was playing with his missing tooth though, tapping it along the table's surface in some kind of dance as he quietly sang "Get Happy", Riddler shuddered slightly and decided that some riddles were best left unanswered.

Wetting his lips (and cringing when he tasted the scent of foul food) he looked pointedly at the tooth in Joker's hand, which he was now moving to an invisible conga line.

"You uh, seem to be taking it awfully well…" Riddler began uncertainly.

"What?" Joker asked absently.

Riddler watched as Joker removed himself from whatever fantasy that horror-film dentists thrived on, the latter criminal regarding the former with interest.

"Oh," Joker chuckled as he realized what Riddler meant. "You mean Batman punching me."

Riddler nodded, causing Joker to shrug indifferently.

"It's just a reflex," he explained dismissively with a smile. "I don't take it personally."

Riddler raised a skeptical eyebrow.

" Not at all?"

Joker didn't answer, instead sliding his tray of untouched food in front of The Riddler.

"Here; more food for you to play with."

Riddler's eyes widened slightly before forcing his features back into his know-it-all face, not wanting the Joker to realize this gesture had taken _the_ Edward Nigma by surprise.

"You don't want it?" Riddler asked.

"I'm not hungry," Joker mumbled.

Riddler watched as the Joker's shoulders began to slump, his head slightly drooping and his eyes downcast, looking utterly miserable. Curiosity overwhelming his shock, Riddler carefully inched closer to the clown, peering into his face as he tried to glean something from the person who personified the very essence of the unknown's chaotic nature. He narrowed his eyes, wanting to know what Joker was thinking, wanting to see some kind of epiphany to qualm the doubts that haunted Riddler each night, _wanting to know the answer…._

Joker jumped up so fast that Riddler, in his surprise, lost his balance and fell onto the floor, his hand tipping the edge of the food tray in a failed attempt to regain stability. The tray fell on his head, bathing his hair and shirt with the tray's contents.

Blushing as a good number of guards and inmates looked his way, Riddler noticed The Joker looking down on him, rocking idly back and forth on his heels as he smirked knowingly.

Riddler realized he had been baited, the Joker intentionally catching him off guard. His ego cursed his brain as it congratulated him for earning the Biggest Moron in the Universe award. His berated thoughts were interrupted by the Joker's cheerful voice.

"Well, I'm off to get my tooth put back in. What's on your agenda Riddles?"

Riddler winced, looking up at Joker resentfully.

"Escaping," Riddler mumbled.

Only The Joker knew how to smile in a way that could be interpreted as good-natured or malevolent, but as the clown's head tilted very slightly to his left shoulder and his lips extended into that sickening smirk, Riddler reprimanded himself for considering the former as a possibility; there was nothing good-natured about the madman that stood before him.

"Well, you look awful. Good luck to you sir!"

Riddler watched as Joker turned his back to him, walking away and laughing in earnest. Riddler kept him in his sight before the goop that insisted on being called food crept down his forehead and settled over his eyes.

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**A/N: In case you're wondering why the guards didn't stop the Joker from torturing Riddler, it's simply because they're terrified of the former and, sadly, couldn't care less about the latter.**

**I know there isn't exactly such a word as "neutrals", but the word "equals" was a complete impossibility; their pride would never allow it lol. **

**Special thanks to Batmanluvr for taking the time to write such a wonderful and encouraging review; your kind words inspired me to complete this chapter, and I sincerely hope it is to your liking. **

**If anyone else is reading this story, I greatly appreciate your patience in surviving the rather long-winded descriptions, but I promise it is all essential to the plot. **

**Reviews and helpful criticism is welcome; flames are not. **


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